Harry, Son of Pot
by Farewells
Summary: I am Harry Potter, prophesied to become the darkest wizard of my time, the eventual destroyer of all worlds. But here I am, making minimum wage at Starbucks with a useless degree in Magical Healing. Between sarcastically contemplating life and enjoying cups of free coffee, I wasn't exactly prepared when an injured Asgardian warrior crashed violently into my life. [AU][HarryxSif]
1. Chapter 1

**A/n:** The story is my first foray into the 1st person POV writing. It's more of an exercise than anything else.

1.) The story takes place in an alternate universe where Voldemort and the rest of the cast did not exist.  
2.) Harry is an orphan, and he has no friends. Boo-fucking-hoo.  
3.) Don't take the story too seriously and don't spend hours looking for plotholes or things that makes sense. It's supposed to be badly written comedy, nothing more.  
4.) Will include casts and references from Harry Potter, Avengers, Thor and Agents of Shield.  
5.) Language warning.  
6.) Don't be fooled by the first few paragraphs, ain't nobody got time to maintain that level of writing.

I love how Sif refers to Phil Coulson as "Son of Coul," which is a patronymic surname. So, in the story, I'll have Harry's name be changed into "Harry Potterson," for the whole "Son of Pot" to happen, which I think, is hilarious.

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **Chapter: 1**

 _London is beautiful this time of year._

The city felt alive, even in the unending crowds of zigzagging pedestrians rushing home for Christmas; the hustling of noise and traffic; the thousands of slow moving cars stuck in the winter commute. Embedded in Christmas cheer, and with the wondrous and thrilling possibilities of the coming New Year, the city could not have beamed more effervescent, and merrily vibrant. Shoppers and dreamers roamed her streets, those who sought comfort in the fulfillment of their superficial needs, and those that sought comfort in one day discovering whatever it was that brought them to this city in the very first place.

Coruscating brilliantly underneath the city's artificial lighting, London was smothered underneath a smooth layer of glowing white. Nothing seemed to be spared from the suffocating, yet unthreatening presence of snow, from London's alluring architecture to her endlessly walkable streets, even the multitude of tiny stores that littered the side of her roads, resembling valiant little fireflies, trying all they can do in order to stop the world from falling into darkness. But even underneath the arguably harsh winter conditions, hundreds of neon signs still flashed vividly, attracting flocks of customers to the variety, and the diversity of services that they were providing; from Christmas trinkets, all the way to drinks and to entertainment. (With a holiday discount, of course.)

The fresh blankets of white resembled the yearly resolutions and hopes of a common Londoner; to usher in the start of a new and hopefully better year, while leaving behind all they have failed in the previous; their mistakes, their past negligence, submerged underneath a beautiful tarp of white, erased and forgotten, in the "spirit" of a better New Year.

Thousands of Londoners flocked the congested streets like tiny ants discovering a sweetened treat left out in the open. Some were visibly excited by the falling flakes of snow, the spirit of Christmas surging excitedly through their warmly clad frames. Others rushed their way through the bustling crowds, wanting nothing more than to get out of the freezing weather, to return to the comfort of their homes, the night's meaning nothing more than a customary gesture for them to get through each year.

From where I stood, I was granted an amazing view of the decorated buildings that towered dominantly across the city skyline, I could hear the Christmas countdowns and experience the expensive fireworks. It wasn't all that bad, at least of all things considered. The alleyway behind Starbucks' employee entrance had a direct path of sight towards the gigantic tree they've erected in the middle of Piccadilly Circus - with its many enormous commercial video displays and gigantic neon mounted signs, it was somewhat considered the Times Square of London; and due to the countless notably famous buildings, landmarks and ease of access to the London subway, it was a hectic swarm of both tourists and Londoners.

Sliding the ends of the lit cigarette between my lips, I felt a warm rush of heat enveloping my chest, a stark and somewhat comfortable contrast to the chilly exterior temperature. Inhaling all of its unhealthy substances, I tilted my head towards the darkened skies and exhaled, watching as clouds of grey dispersed into the visible stars above, like a faraway nebula, galaxies away from where I stood.

I hated the occasion, the weather, the incessant crowds of sweaty jostling people. I hated the pretentious ceremonies, the ostentatious decorations, the pompous act of Christmas itself. I couldn't wait for the day to be over, for everyone else to wake up the next morning, sober from the night's cheer and realizing that it was nothing more than a mere distraction, that their poor miserable lives were still exactly the same as before.

I wasn't always this cynical and detestable, at least I chose to think so. Christmas used to be my favorite time of the year, from the magically enhanced snowball skirmishes, to the obscene amount of butterbeer that accompanied the celebrations at Hogwarts, I loved everything about Christmas.

But it was also on a Christmas night very much like this when I first learned of my inherited prophecy. Due to how preposterous, and how ridiculous it was, I initially questioned the authenticity of the seer, but I was quickly assured otherwise, that there were no mistakes, that the legitimacy of the prophecy was absolute.

I would soon learn of its grave significance, and the weight of its importance as they brought me deep into the Department of Mysteries, into the Hall of Prophecies. A day I would never forget, hearing the clamorous ministry mob outside of the room muted in a single instance as the heavyset doors slammed shut behind us. I remembered the silence, the ominous stillness of the room, facing a path that seemingly stretched endlessly into the horizons, a room without markings as to where it began, or where it ended – if, it even had one.

When they handed the orb to me afterwards, it seemed so harmless, like a mere trinket, a tiny glowing ball of contained wisp that rested mildly in my palms. I was more afraid of shattering it with my touch than of its ability to shatter my entire world. I remember it glowing brightly as I neared, and with it…

 _The darkest of lords descends upon us. Like the bolt of lightning scarred across his forehead, his actions are of equal devastation. He will become responsible for the destruction of our world, he will lay waste to all that stands in his way; he will bring ruin, desolation. His own selfishness will become the ends… of our world and the next._

The voice was female, haggardly, old. I could hear the fear, the frightened tone of which she spoke, she was afraid, horrified… of me, someone whom she had never met.

Even though the prophecies could only be heard by the ones whom they spoke of, I did not believe with absolute certainty that the seer was referring to me. There could be a chance of simple mistaken identity, that there was another being with the same lightning scar across his own forehead. I've never intentionally harmed an insect in my life, much less another living person. It was impractical, unfeasible, yet a part of me will always doubt its validity, and the accuracy of the prophecy.

Could I one day become the person she spoke of? The same that would become responsible for the destruction of my world?

Albus Dumbledore seemed to have believed so, or at least appeared to think that way; he wasn't exactly a man of many words. As a student of Hogwarts, I obviously knew of our own headmaster, but until that very day, there were no reasons for us to have previously crossed paths.

I was but a frightened child that night, looking towards his furrowing brows with a hopeful gaze, knowing that if anyone could get me out of this terrifying situation, it was him - Albus Dumbledore - one of, if not, the strongest wizard of our time, I practically worshiped him.

Yet instead of being comforted and told otherwise, that I could somehow avoid the prophecy under his guidance, he instead looked off into the distance and spoke with a tired voice, telling me that there were certain things, "that were just inevitable."

He removed me from most of the school's curriculum that day - Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, even subjects like Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. I understood their reasoning, that if I were to one day fulfill my prophecy, to become the very evil I sought to prevent; those could be the subjects that become the might of my powers. Along with those, I was also prevented from taking informative classes such as History of Magic, and the Study of Ancient Runes, they were terrified of the things I could learn, they wanted me weak, uninformed.

A part of me always wondered if I was trapped in a self-fulfilling prophecy of some sort, like the tragic story of Oedipus, and like him, our actions and decisions were the causes and results that would someday turn me into this very evil that the seer saw. I believed they thought of that too, but it seemed safer to just deny me of every opportunity, every possibility.

At least I wasn't suspended or expelled; the six years of my life spent in Hogwarts would have been an utter waste of my time. But in order to still graduate, I had to pick up other classes in order to fulfill the minimum graduation credits, so I partook in the only remaining subjects that were unrestricted to me, ones that were mostly deemed useless to the wizarding world - Muggle Studies, Magical Healing, and most ironically, since there were no other available options, Divination.

When I graduated the next year, it was with a bunch of useless diplomas I had zero interest in furthering, certificates that were of no use, that were unable to land me a proper job or to further my education. A year before, I was on fast tracks to becoming a trainee Auror, I've had almost perfect scores in all of its prerequisite classes, I've finished my internship at the ministry with high praise, I was on the path towards my dream job.

Now, well, no one in the government would ever hire someone with a, "prophesized to end the world," in their resumé to become an Auror. That dream was over. The upside to the subjects I was forced into taking, was that I did a pretty damn well job in magical healing. It ended up as something I've found renewed interest in at one point, along with how opposite it was to the prophecy, placing me in a position to save lives instead of taking them.

But then again, the same thing happened. No hospital, no clinic, no matter how small, would hire someone like me. No one would trust their lives to a person prophesied to end the world. Divination was as useless as one would believe, way worse than an actual arts degree. Muggle studies were… well, let's just say the only use for a degree in Muggles study, was to become a teacher teaching… muggles studies. A vicious, vicious cycle.

The muffled shouting of my name from behind the closed doors was a clear indication of my ending break. Dropping the little cancer stick into the snow covered floors, its embers were soon put out like the dreams I once had. I took out a tiny can of deodorant and sprayed it along the underside of my arms and my neck, trying to mask whatever unpleasant odors remained. Then I placed it back into the pockets by the side of the green Starbucks attire I wore, next to the tiny zippo lighter I used minutes before.

Unlike the rest of the Wizarding world, the Trace Charm was never removed from me, even upon my seventeenth birthday a decade ago. A precaution, they told me. A warning as well, clear as day, of their intentions to monitor me for the rest of my life, that a suspiciously casted spell was all it would take for an entire team of fully-equipped, trigger-happy Aurors to break down my door, wands at the ready.

The trace charm ended up greatly limiting the things I could do, but it wasn't entirely hard adapting to muggle standards, their abilities and their gifts for advancing technology was not something to be looked down upon. I could now send a text (or an emoticon) across the world in mere seconds, compared to the weeks it once took for an owl to deliver hand written messages back during my days in Hogwarts.

Brushing the bottom of my shoes against the steps that led into the coffee store, I made sure that there were no traces of snow or wet imprints following me before heading into its warmer interior. I made that mistake once; I never thought the torturous reprimandation would end. As manager, Miss Granger ruled over the store with an ironclad fist devoid of mercy. Given the chance, those who have wronged the store would be executed and strung up as warnings, a precautionary tale for the newer employees to behold.

Most of them had requested to be transferred to another outlet by the end of a month, I've lasted more than a year, and I'm still bravely counting onward. I like this little store, from its cozy, warm ambiance, to even Miss Granger, whom I've won over with daily peace offerings of those baked pastries I knew she loved.

Situated at the edge of the city district, we don't get as many customers as those located in the busier sectors, but we still had our share of interesting characters each day, like that idiot browsing porn at the corner, thinking that the rest of us didn't notice.

We can see you, you bloody idiot.

Making minimal wage working the overnight shift at Starbucks wasn't exactly where I've envisioned myself to be when I was younger, but I couldn't exactly complain. Finding a proper job in the wizarding industry was simply impossible for someone like me, in Muggle terms, it would be to show up at a government job interview with, "links to terrorist cells" widely plastered across my forehead. While I've done nothing remotely of note since the discovery of my prophecy, the stigma that it left, was to remain forever.

The other advantage to this job was the lack of interaction with members of the wizarding community. As close to my heart as the store was, it held zero competition against the establishments owned by magical users, who could easily infuse and charm their drinks to an entirely different level. Only Muggles frequented the store, and their lack of recognition and realization was something I thoroughly appreciated. It was easy to tell the differences between both, most Muggles wouldn't give me a second glance, while the looks of apprehension, the uneasiness of those in the wizarding society that recognized me for who I was, those were slightly more noticeable.

We did not have online gossip sites nor social platforms in our society, but news do travel equally as fast. It did not take long at all for news of my prophecy to spread, to become outcasted by those whom I've once called friends, to turn me into the imagined villain they feared.

I could see the change even in the way my neighbors looked at me, even Mrs Weasley, whom I've used to mow her lawn for free. It was too much. So I moved, away from my tiny hometown where everyone knew the other. I headed into the city, where lives revolved around a much quicker pace, where I could hide amongst the millions of Londoners that pass by me each day, without noticing the ones that slipped between their midst.

The tiny chime atop the entrance jingled softly, signaling the arrival of another patron. I watched as a young female escaped from the chilly outside conditions, the darkened locks that tumbled down her shoulders were still covered with tiny pieces of ice, like glitters of white upon a contrasted canvas, hauntingly beautiful. Other than our newest customer, the shop was mostly left unoccupied, less than a dozen patrons hung around its cozy interior. An elderly couple that seemed to be avoiding the snow, a bunch of students with their eyes glued to their books, and judging from their flashier clothing, a group of late night party goers, sobering up before their ride home, or perhaps, a short rest for the morning ahead, a tiny pause before seeking their next thrill.

Like dying candles late into the night, they started to disperse with each passing hour, their numbers slowly dwindling like a losing army, their strength, their will to stay awake weakening as the night drags steadily onward, as the interminable winter persisted defiantly outside.

As my shift neared its conclusion, the numbers eventually dwindled down to four - me, my manager and the two elderly Muggles by the window-side seats.

Noticing my manager indicating towards the broom that leaned lonelily by the side of the store, I tried to politely decline her request with persistent puppy eyes. I failed miserably. A few minutes later, I was slowly moving across the store, the broom tiredly in hand, a pile of gathering dirt as I moved along the seats. I remembered the days when I could magically charm the broom (not with my looks) into sweeping entire buildings by itself, but instead, I was now reduced to manual laborer, how far have I fallen. To be exposed to the harsh and unforgiving world, to have to use my own… hands.

My sarcastic thoughts were interrupted briefly as I neared the elderly couple, but they did not appear to have noticed my presence. Instead, they were caught in a world of their own. They stared out into the night; the condensation that coated the store's window was almost like a catalyst of some sort, further accentuating the fireworks that never seemed to end. They looked upon the mesmerizing sight like delighted children, their fingers entwining the other's. The entire scene was beguiling, and I was only interrupted when I felt a smack across the back of my head.

A rough transition back into reality, as I was returned under Miss Granger's tough and unfair rule, as she once again reminded me of her authority, her ability to execute (fire) me as she saw fit. But I knew she wouldn't, who else would buy her those delicious bear shaped muffins before the early morning shift? She needed me, like a drug addict and her fix. I was probably exaggerating, but I wasn't willing to test her bluff, I needed the job.

So, another hour passed before I swept the remaining parts of the store clean.

It was slightly before five in the morning when the elderly couple finally left. It was also the end of my shift. While the franchise was advertised as a 24 hour coffee stop, our particular store was the exception. We were closed for two hours a day, from five in the morning until seven, before the morning shift's arrival.

Why was it this way? I honestly have no bloody idea. If you came to me asking for the inner workings and hierarchy of the Starbucks Empire, I would have probably looked at you all funny before calling you a fucking idiot.

But I won't, because I'm nice like that.

I prefer avoiding direct confrontations, my useless superpower is my sarcastic inner thoughts.

Miss Granger had already left before I closed up the store, no doubt returning to her lair of cats. Knowing her, she probably named them all. Locking the doors and shutting the binds, I made sure the cash register was properly emptied before heading into the back, where I could change into warmer clothing before heading home. Removing the required apron, I took an exaggeratedly long sniff before deciding that it could endure a few more days before needing a wash. I stuffed it into the locket after removing my bag.

It was only when I was searching through my bag, when I realized Miss Granger stole my fucking coat. No wonder she asked if I had worn adequate clothing for the ongoing snow. From the way she had constantly pestered me, wanting to know what I've worn to work, I thought she was concerned about my well-being, apparently fucking not.

This was a betrayal of the highest order, she needs to be taught a lesson, someone won't be getting her fucking muffins come tomorrow's shift.

Heading back into the store, I decided to look around and see if I could find something of use, eventually ending up at the Lost & Found section. Digging through the box, I eventually found an old blanket that smelled weirdly of mushrooms. Perhaps someone died on top of it and rotted away, their decomposing corpse returning life to Gaia in the form of fungus, our Earth renewed once more. A beautiful miracle of lif- Nah who was I fucking kidding, someone probably took a shit in it and threw it away because of the stains.

I see the stains. They scared me a lot more than I cared to admit. Recently, I saw a movie of the horror genre, one of the characters unsuspectingly grazed his arm across a stain of bacteria culture, I remembered cringing extremely hard as the flesh eating virus necrotized his entire arm before spreading to the rest of his body. It was a shitty fucking movie and I wanted my ten dollars back, but then again, I learned a valuable life lesson, don't trust random stains.

Making sure that the darkened spot was on the outside, I wrapped the fabric around myself before heading out of the employee's exit. I looked like the mixture of a hobo and a complete idiot, but at least I wasn't freezing. The temperature fell drastically in the last few hours or so, nothing remained of the once soft cushions of snow, as only hardened ice laid in its wake. Slowly shuffling my way down the alleyway as to not slip and accidentally kill myself, I was halfway from the exit when a shimmering blur caught my eye.

Like gathering ghosts, wisps of light appeared in the skies above me, a circular shaped object of scintillating blue. It grew larger with each passing second, as energy of some sort crackled in the air around it. It wasn't magic, it felt nothing like it. I was rooted to the ground, I couldn't move but watch as it grew larger in size. In the next moment, the portal opened, like an anus ridding itself of vile contents, a warm flush of heat rained downwards, melting the ice around where I stood, entirely soaking through my shoes. I instinctively raised my arms up to protect myself as pieces of solid rock hailed from the skies above, yet they were unlike any I've ever seen.

As they smashed against my arm, they disintegrated into tiny pieces of silken sand. Now I've got both sand and water in my shoes, fucking perfect.

It was then I noticed a growing shadow, and as I looked back up, it was all I saw before something knocked me off my feet.

We tumbled across the icy floor, painfully crashing to a halt by the side of an overturned garbage can. I was lying on my back, my eyelids fluttering as I tried focusing onto the visible moon above. As I regained my composure, I realized that I was staring at a fucking streetlamp all along.

I tried to move, but something held me down, a heavy object had toppled over me, I was stuck. Something brushed over my face, sending me into a fit of heavy sneezing, I hope it wasn't a gigantic alien crab, I was allergic to crabs. It was only after a while did I realize that it was hair from another human being.

A woman, clad in heavy metallic armor. It wasn't her weight by itself, but as I assumed, her enhanced armor that I was unable to move. I tried pushing her, then pulling onto her, then slipping my fingers underneath the front of her armor and lifting her, but none seemed to work.

The woman was otherwise unresponsive.

I wasn't giving up, if I were to freeze to death in this situation, it would be like drowning in a puddle of water, it was fucking stupid, pathetic and embarrassing mix into one.

Sticking my arms into the warm mess of stinking overturned garbage beside me, I was about to retrieve something that could work as a lever when I felt the person stirring. Her head lifted off my chest, her eyes, ones that were of a brilliant hazel, glanced around her, before noticing my presence beneath her. Almost immediately, she rolled herself off me, her weapon drawn, the sharpened tip of her metallic blade pressed to my throat.

"You."

Her voice was filled with menace, an air of undeniable hostility. "A perversed creature that violated me in my weakened state. I can still feel your touch upon my skin. You will pay for your wicked deeds, you foul being."

What, the, actual, bloody, fuck.

"No!" I shouted, my voice unusually an octave higher than the usual, "it was a misunderstanding! You fell from whatever it was that brought you here! You landed on me and I was trapped underneath your armor, I was just trying to get free!"

She seemed to be contemplating what I've just said, but that was before I noticed the glazed look in her eyes. Before I could do anything else, I saw the blade falling limply to her side, moments before it clattered noisily onto the floor. She followed suit, falling onto her knees as her arms pressed against her side. It was then I saw blood, a ton of it that spilled out of her armor, turning the ice beneath us a crimson red.

She was injured, badly so. She needed help, so when she fell, I got up to my feet… and fucking ran as fast as I could.

I wasn't a goddamn hero remember? I was prophesied to become the villain! Running away from a dying person that just threatened me with death moments ago? It was undoubtedly the most logical thing to do.

Yet…

I skidded to a stop inches away from the alley's exit, turning towards the prone figure behind. I could see the fallen woman struggling to breathe, the erratic movements of her chest indicating lungs filling up with blood. An ambulance wouldn't be able to make it on time. If I were to leave her, she was likely to drown in her own blood.

So I left.

And returned minutes later with a bag of purchased items from 7-11. As I slid down beside her, her eyes instantly locked onto mine; pleading and afraid. I could tell she was terrified. The day their bodies betrayed them, even the strongest of warriors would crumble. Looking for the entry wound, I quickly realized that it wasn't something I could reach without first removing her armor.

That enhanced, heavy as shit armor.

But I was prepared, I reached into the bag I brought along and removed a tiny portable drill, courtesy of seven fucking eleven, they really do have everything. But before I could press its tip against the metallic plates, I felt her fingers grazing across mine.

I stopped, and watched as she feebly reached for the front of her armor. At her touch, her sheathing retracted like a wounded window, sliding behind her, out of sight. I hope seven-eleven issues refunds, because that was a complete fucking waste of my forty nine pounds and ninety nine pence.

Underneath her armor, she was dressed in a skintight one piece suit, I noticed the laceration along her ribs immediately (along with some other features, but those are for another time.)

Taking out the towels, I pressed them against the puncture wound, quickly cleaning the blood and finding a visible entry point. I removed the syringe that I bought next, and fashioned it into something resembling a chest tube, then I prayed to whichever god or unicorn that might be listening and stuck the tube directly into the wound, moving it around and ignoring her squirms until I found the pleural space.

Moving her upright, there was an almost immediate effect, as blood spurted out from the exposed end of the tube, along with escaped air. If she were to die, I hoped that she would haunt the ones responsible for stopping my progression in Medical healing, instead of me, of course.

Fortunately, I could see that it was working, as the woman started to breathe more naturally, as the intruding fluids slowly drained out of her lungs.

"Thank you…" she whispered, her voice on a completely different tone than before. When she eventually found her strength to speak once more, she said, "I would have perished without your intervention." She paused for a moment, as though searching for the correct words, "I am Lady Sif, warrior of Asgard, protector of all realms. What is your name?"

"I am… Harry Potterson," I started, then paused for a moment, "of Godric's Hollow and umm, barista of Starbucks?"

"I owe you my life, son of Pot." She said with a straight face.

What the flying fuck. I am not even going to attempt salvaging that.

Anyway, I knew it wasn't over, I still had to remove the tube, clean the wound, then sew her back up. There was also the problem of transporting someone covered in blood to the tiny apartment I rented, I wasn't going to fix her up in the middle of an abandoned alleyway. That's usually where the black guy dies first in slasher movie. Fucking-no.

I heard someone shouting Christmas greetings from beyond the alleyway.

Fuck him too, I hope he has a shitty day.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter: 2**

It wasn't long before I retrieved the abandoned blanket, along with the sword as she requested. I took a seat near her as we waited for a long while, until I was certain that the fluids were completely drained from her lungs before removing the little tube.

In the meantime, it gave me a lot of time to think. I wondered about my decision to save the stranger. In the years after the prophecy, I will admit to turning cynical about life, becoming somewhat (arguably somewhat) a negatively pessimistic person. I became disillusioned of the world, I've started to hate cats. Cute fluffy cats, I used to love them, now they annoy me.

See how much I've changed? It's horrible.

Initially, I've tried proving the prophecy wrong, doing everything I could in order to accomplish the opposite, to show the world that I wasn't just some… destroyer of worlds.

But as time went on, well, the anger, the depression, it does things to people.

So why did I help her?

Did a part of me still believed otherwise? That I could change my fate, my destiny? I would be lying if I admitted otherwise, to losing all hope and accepting my fate. A part of me, a tiny part of me, still wanted desperately to try.

I looked towards her - Lady Sif, as she told me her name was. She was looking at me with eyes I've never seen before. Respect, thankfulness. It's been a long while since anyone who knew me, looked at me with anything but fear or apprehension. It felt great. I swallowed and looked away, I was getting choked up, emotional.

When I eventually got the tube out, I took one of the bandages that I bought and wrapped it around her body, sealing the wound. It would hold for now, at least until I get to stitch the wound up. Passing the blanket to her, (but not warning her about the stains) I wrapped it around her. It wasn't because of the cold, she did not seem to be affected, but we had to hide the blood somehow. Half of her greyed clothing ran scarlet with her blood. I don't want passerbys to think I half-murdered her or something.

I offered to help her stand, but she was insistent on walking alone. It was fine with me, I don't want her blood smudging onto me in the first place.

She followed me down the alleyway, and out into the opened streets. We had a few weird looks sent our way - me with minimal clothing in the falling snow, and her with a dirtied blanket wrapped around her.

I saw her looking around, taking in the colorful sights, a look of marvel crossing her eyes. "Let's go," I broke her out of her trance as we hastily moved down the sidewalk. We could have took a cab, but she seemed fine, and I was stingy. My place wasn't too far either.

You can tell that the place I lived in was old as shit when the first thing you come across by the front of my neighborhood is an old video store, with the poster of Top Gun by its entrance. Tom Cruise, in all of his good looking glory. Who the fuck still buys videos? I love Top Gun though, so that store still earned my patronage every now and then.

It was a quiet, narrow street, barely illuminated by streetlamps that were placed obviously far apart in order to save money.

In a way, the neighborhood was perfect for me. It was old and dilapidated, people wanted to leave, not to relocate here. People weren't the friendliest to one another either, they don't make friends, and I don't stick out.

We eventually came by a rundown multi-storey flat, heavily graffiti-ed and vandalized. If she had any thoughts about its state, she kept it to herself. We walked up the stairs to the fourth floor, there weren't any elevators. The corridors was infected with rats, who ran away as our footsteps neared. Stopping by my apartment, I dug into my pockets and removed the key. Four different locks later (better safe than sorry), I entered the place I've been staying at since I moved here almost a decade ago.

"Close the doors behind you," I muttered before realizing she did not follow me in. Turning towards her, I saw that she was slumped outside.

I hissed a curse before running back out. I slid my arms beneath her and heaved her back into my flat. I hoped no one saw us, they would have thought that I was a kidnapper or rapist or something along the lines of that.

Clearing away the books that sat on the dinner table, I laid her atop, quickly removing the blanket and realizing that her wound was again bleeding profusely, soaking through the bandages. I didn't understand, we did nothing that would reopen such an injury.

Quickly tearing the bandages off her, I took another precise look at the wound, I couldn't see anything, my place was too dark. I pressed urgently onto the light switches, they just clicked stupidly back at me. The power was out again, that's what I get for living in a shitty place. I reached into my pockets, and realized that I left my lighter in the apron at my locker as well.

Fuck.

She was groaning by then, the blood wasn't stopping.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Did I really not have another choice?

I dug into one of my taped up boxes, there was a "fragile" sign next to it. I've not opened this particular box since moving from my childhood home all those years ago. It was filed with my stuff from Hogwarts. Tearing the box open, I quickly dug through its contents and found my wand. I took it out, my hands trembling at the contact.

Pointing it at her wound, I could hear my heart thumping inside of my chest. I took a moment to compose myself, then I muttered, "Lumos."

The little apartment lit up immediately, the tip of my wand illuminating the space in front of me. The first spell I've casted in over a decade, no doubt detected by the trace charm that still existed within me.

I placed the wand onto the table beside us, directing its glow towards her wound while I slowly peeled the bandages apart. Immediately, I discovered the source of the bleeding. A piece of crystal, reddened in color and embedded deep inside of her. I headed back to the box and removed a tiny bag, the one I was given when I first studied Magical healing all those years back in Hogwarts. Removing the forceps, I used it to hold open her wound while I used another pair to dig for the crystal.

Due to the magical properties of their material, I did not need to sterilize my tools, saving me a shit ton of time as I wiggled the instruments inside of her, trying to get a proper grip. She was writhing at my movements, and I half contemplated just knocking her the fuck out to make it easier on my end.

But suddenly, I did it. I felt a proper grip, the crystal loosening as I slowly pulled it out of her. I could have sworn the thing started to glow as it exited her, but I paid it little attention, dropping it onto the floor before pressing a towel onto the wound.

She had regained consciousness by then, though still clearly weakened by her recent ordeal.

"Hold onto the towel," I commanded as I ran through the bag and removed the stitches. Walking over to the fridge, I removed a bottle of Jack Daniels, pouring a generous glass of whiskey before returning to her.

She reached out for the drink as I approached, only for her greedy fingers to be slapped away.

"Mine," I said, handing her a can of common beer instead. Ignoring her comments when she told me it tasted like water, I showed her my shaking fingers before finishing the whole in a single gulp. "To calm my nerves."

Feeling the liquid fire course through me, I took a moment before pushing the needle into her skin. She handled the pain well, considering I didn't have any anesthetic on hand. I was done stitching through her wound in a matter of minutes. It reminded me a little of the scar across my forehead, the lightning bolt caused by the car crash when I was three - the drunk driver slamming into my father's vehicle.

Leaning back for a moment, I was fucking exhausted. It was a long night.

"How are you feeling?" I asked her.

"Weak." She muttered, "I lost a lot of blood."

"There was something inside of you," I looked over to the crystal, only for my eyes to widen in surprise. Only a hole remained, it burned through my floor, probably falling to the level below. "A red… crystal?"

"Weapons of the Svartálfar," she replied, "made from harvesting only a fraction of the Aether's true power."

I had no idea what the fuck she just said, but I nodded anyways.

"One must have pierced my skin before I was thrown into the portal."

By then, my wand was already put away, I did not want to risk any further exposure. She had to reposition herself in order to see her stitches by using the outside light.

"Yes, the portal," I said, remembering the way she fell and almost crushed me, "how the hell did that happen anyway?"

"Hel?" She asked, "I wasn't anywhere near Hel." That confused me for a moment, but she continued before I could ask anything else, "there was an invasion."

"On Asgard. The Svartálfar, they attacked looking for the Aether." She looked away, a defeated look across her face, "I was tasked with protecting the All-mother... I failed. Their troops, there were too many, we were unprepared, they overwhelmed us."

I was starting to understand her situation - Asgard, Aether, the things she were saying. She is not from our world, at least her mind isn't, and she's fucking insane.

But then again… The crystal, the way she was already walking and talking even after losing all that amount of blood, it wasn't normal, wasn't natural. Could the portal have been from another realm as she claimed?

She sat up and slid off the table, taking her first initial look at my place. While the outside looked like utter shit, I'm actually quite proud of its interior, it looked nothing resembling a house you would expect of this location. Managing to sell my place before I moved, along with working for the last decade without an extravagant lifestyle, I wasn't exactly poor. I'm living in this neighborhood by choice, and not condition.

The place was neatly decorated, with upholstered furniture and landscape paintings in glided frames. One could smell the scent of orange blossoms and basil from the tiny kitchen by the side, other than the dead lights which I had no control over, the entire place had a welcoming hue.

"Do you have something I can change into?" She asked before indicating to the clothing that she wore, now soaked with a mixture of her blood and still wet from the ice she laid on.

The apartment only had two separate rooms, the living room slash kitchen, and a tiny bedroom. I headed into the latter, returning soon after with a Godzilla t-shirt, and a pair of boxers, which I was quite sure would fit her. I wasn't buff, but I've most definitely grown since my days at Hogwarts.

After accepting the clothing, she stood still and stared at me.

"Yes?" I asked, wondering if there was anything else she wanted. Because a fucking bra certainly wasn't in my inventory.

"Could you…" She said softly, "turn away?"

"Oh, yes, of course," I stumbled before turning around, instead looking at her through the reflection of a hung mirror. But as I caught her eyes still on mine, I gave up and diverted my stare.

When I turned back around afterwards, she was already changed. She picked up a piece of rubber band that was lying by the counter and tied her hair up, slowly moving over to the sofa as to not aggravate her wounds.

It felt quite awkward suddenly, like as though I hired a prostitute and she couldn't leave afterwards because of a sudden snowstorm.

"Are you hungry?" I asked suddenly, because I fucking was and I had no idea of what else to do.

She nodded. "If it isn't too much to ask."

Heading over to the stove, I took out a pack of matches and lit one, holding it on top of the stove and clicking it on, the sparks creating a circular flame. Putting a pot over it, I heated some water before opening the drawers and finding a few packets of instant noodles. She isn't staying at a five star hotel, she'll have to do with budget eating.

Tossing the noodles in, I waited a while for them to soften before throwing in a few eggs along with the packets of sauces. Mixing them well, I covered it while waiting for the contents to cook. When it was eventually done, I carefully carried the deliciously smoking pot over to the table, which I've already cleaned of her blood.

Turning towards her, it was then I noticed she was already fast asleep. She had slid backwards onto the sofa, lying down with one leg hanging off, her body slightly turned to her side. I was a little insulted, but then again, she was injured (a good excuse if I've ever seen on), so that meant more noodles for myself then. When I was eventually done with all the food, I cleaned the plates and headed into my room.

I half contemplated embracing my gentlemanly side and covering her with a blanket, But I only had a single one and it was fucking freezing, so no. I used it for myself. I did throw a bunch of extra clothing onto her, I hoped it helped with the temperature.

I heard someone screaming outside of the apartment before I fell asleep. Probably someone getting mugged while I was trying to sleep, that inconsiderate little shit.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter: 3**

She was still asleep when I got up the next day. Groaning noisily and stretching myself out across softened cushions, I dragged myself up and headed into the bathroom. Quickly cleaning myself, I ran my fingers through the tiny stubble that I had, deciding that I could endure a few more days before getting mistaken for a homeless person. Heading towards the living room, I noticed that she pulled a few of the dumped clothing tighter around herself, resembling something like a wrapped human sushi. I will admit, it's pretty cute.

I wanted to check on her wounds, to see whether it was healing properly, but there wasn't much I could do from this angle, and she seemed to be resting well, so I decided not to disturb her for now. After finishing a quick shower, I looked around the place before deciding to pack up a few things from the night before. I had the Christmas day off, so there wasn't much on my calendar today. I picked up the medical instruments from before, cleaning them before sliding them back into the porch. Instead of sending it back into the box, I placed it aside, it felt somewhat significant to me.

I remember falling in love with healing all those years ago. After graduation, it was impossible for me to find an institute that was willing to hire me. I was rejected after they learned of my identity. That was where both my interest and my short lived career started and ended.

It was a good ten years since I've last did anything remotely close to what I've once learned in a medical classroom.

That included the spell I've casted. It was nothing, a mere lighting charm. But it was what scared me the most. I felt jumpy, that my door would be kicked down at any moment, an army of Aurors waiting outside, preparing to drag me down to Azkaban.

I decided that I needed to clear my head, needed to leave the cramped apartment for a little while. I noticed it was snowing again as I stepped out, tiny flakes of white that covered the neighborhood, almost like a fresh layer of paint across a decomposing corpse.

What I meant to say, is that it didn't really help much.

Pulling the jacket I've thrown on tighter around myself, I took a long wandering path throughout the neighborhood. I had no direction in mind, as though led by an invisible current of some sort, praying that I don't end up in an abandoned alleyway, where vicious muggers laid in wait.

Due to my working hours and sleeping timing, it was only in the late afternoon when I made my way down the narrowed streets, passing indistinct figures, each with own path, their destination, none giving heed to the men and women that walked them by.

The people from this neighborhood aren't ones to recognize a friend on the street and stop for a friendly chat. If you do get recognized, you better get the fuck out of there because someone is probably holding a grudge or two.

While the neighborhood might have once thrived under a different generation, it existed now only as a collapsing monument, trying to hold on to its once glorious past, yet crumbling slowly day by day. But all was not lost, if one took a closer look through all the crime and unrest, they could spot signs of growing life, tiny blossoming hints, struggling against the dilapidation; attempts to clean up vulgar graffiti, pots of flowers planted by ugly streets, helpful signs.

There was also a new coffee place built right at the heart of the crime infested neighborhood, a dainty little store, open even on Christmas itself. It is the store I find myself visiting day after day, nowhere else, especially in a neighborhood like this, could one find such amazing authentic Asian cooking.

The gangsters, the drug dealers, the murderers, they left the place alone, I like to believe it's because of the taste, a warm tavern where even the most hated of enemies could come by and share a meal together. Or perhaps it's because the old lady doesn't give a shit who you are, from the size of her biceps and the tattoos that covered her arms, even the most hardened of criminals would cower before her.

I've spent plenty of days fantasizing about her past, where she came from. Maybe she had connections to the Chinese Triads. Maybe she's one of the old Triad heads, having entire drug empires beneath her, retiring only after years of ruthless wrongdoings, deciding on moving away and starting anew, a less violent life. Perhaps she got pregnant, and unwanting her child to grow up surrounded by violence, handed her title to the one beneath her and disappeared.

I waved towards her as I entered the store, receiving a prompt, "Ni Hao," in return. While it meant, "Hello", in mandarin, a literal translation could be, "you, good."

Chinese is fucking weird, but from the things she taught me, it's also pretty damn beautiful.

"I would suggest the beef fishball noodle soup," she suggested in perfect English as I headed over to the counter, "perfect for a cold day like this."

Also the most fucking expensive item on the menu, why am I not one bit surprised?

Then again, there is no price on good food, so I ordered two, one for myself and a takeaway set for the unconscious lady at my place. I took a seat as she started, a ball of freshly squeezed dough, rolled and flattened onto the kitchen table. She whipped out a knife, her handiwork skillful and frankly, a little scary, as she chopped it up into fine strands, which she tossed into a vat of steaming soup.

The beef and the fishballs followed in afterwards, cooking with the noodles as she prepared a large bowl. Adding in a variety of spices at the bottom, she scooped the noodles out, softly sliding them into the bowl, along with the rest of the ingredients before topping them off with a generous amount of vegetables. I dug in as she started working on the second order, hungrily slurping down the delicious noodles, a warm surge of heat that expanded from my stomach, engulfing the rest of my body in an orgasmic high.

It was fucking delicious, and she knew it, thus the exuberant price. When I was done, not even a single droplet of the soup remained. As she passed me my takeaway order, I noticed a sly grin growing across her face.

"I gave you additional soup for the lucky lady."

"What?" I spurted, what the fuck is going on? How did she know there was someone else with me?

"Whoever you're getting the food for," she said, that shit eating grin still prominent from cheek to cheek.

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on," she nudged me, "what's her name?" She was enjoying it, "you've visited my store so many times now, but always alone, never with another. But today, not only is it Christmas, but you're having lunch so late in the afternoon? Someone must have been up all night doing something... fun!"

She was right in saying that me and that woman have been up all night, but it surely wasn't whatever the fuck she was referring to. When she realized that she couldn't get anything else out of me unless subjecting me to some cruel waterboarding or Triad torture techniques, she finally released me, allowing me to go my own way.

I felt my shoes sinking into the growing layers of snow as I exited the store, it was getting heavy, I knew I ought to head back before dark. It didn't take me long to return to my place, the growing snow and the risk of getting mugged resulted in a hurried pace. As I closed the doors and shut the freezing winds behind me, the first thing I noticed was that she was gone. The pile of clothing she used as a makeshift blanket laid scattered around the sofa.

I panicked for a little bit, because I've spent ten full fucking pounds on the noodle, but then I soon noticed her weapon still hanging by the side of the room, followed by the sounds of a running shower. I approached the bathroom, but then decided otherwise, still remembering the feel of her blade pressing against my neck. Finding an unused bowl, I cleaned it before pouring all of the soup and the noodles into it, setting it by the table and waiting for her to be done.

Being extremely filled and satisfied by the meal, I must have dozed off for a moment before the sound of her taking a seat woke me up. She was already fully dressed, with another pair of my clothing, her hair still wet, hanging down the sides of her neck.

"It this… for me?" She asked, her eyes seemingly mesmerized by the food. I doubt she'll care if I said no.

"Go ahead," I pointed, jokingly adding in, "it's not poisoned."

"Why would it be poisoned," she asked, her eyes narrowing with intent.

Help me god, does this woman take everything literally too?

She picked up the provided chopsticks, staring at them for a long moment before I plucked them away from her hand, breaking them into two and showing her how to use it. She caught on fast, I could see the dexterity in her fingers, no doubt from a lifetime of training. I assumed she was a warrior of some sort, from both her armor and her blade, along with the obscure things she spoke of the night before. I wanted her to expand on the things she told me last night, but now wasn't the time.

Her eyes brightened up immediately as she tasted the food, reminding me of an impatient and excited child. "It is delicious!" She exclaimed between bites, "I thank you once more, Son of Pot!"

"Its… Umm.. Harry." I tried to correct her, but she wasn't exactly listening.

Before long, the bowl was emptied, the woman leaning back against the chair, eyes closed in contempt.

I broke the silence first. "So… about last night. I know you kind of told me the gist of what happened to you, but can you explain everything again, this time… pretending that I do not understand anything at all?"

She looked at me, and for a moment, seemed as though she was genuinely surprised at my lack of apparent general knowledge. "You are from Midgard, and I come from Asgard."

"This is Midgard, but it feels… different." She suddenly said, but then shook her head and continued. "There are nine realms in our universe, all of them interconnected by the tree of worlds, Yggdrasil."

"You said you were being invaded," I asked, partly remembering the things she spoke of last night, "by the… Sa… Svar…"

I fucking gave up two seconds into it, she knew what I was talking about, I wasn't going to further embarrass myself.

"Svartálfar," she corrected me, "or Dark Elves as they are known."

What the fuck? Why couldn't she have said Dark Elves in the first place!?

"We thought they were dead, wiped out by our Asgardian ancestors all those years ago. They remained nothing but legends, tales of the old. Of a time when all that reigned true was darkness." She trailed off, a solemn look in her eyes. "How wrong were we."

"Their attack was swift, brutal, decimating. Within minutes, our outer defenses fell, hundreds dead. They were only intent on one thing, the Aether. It is a weapon, created by Malekith himself - their leader, thousands of years ago."

She looked away, a mixture of embarrassment and sadness, "I was tasked to protect the All-mother."

I assumed that the All-Mother was someone important. Maybe a Queen, or maybe in their world, all women were infertile except one. Which resulted in all of them being the child of that one woman, thus... well, All-Mother. Either way, I'm not asking that now.

"I failed." Her stare was daunting, "We were pushed back into the throne room, a dozen of us, against hundreds of them. Our men fought valiantly, but in the end, only the two of us remained."

"I… I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't defeat them all. I was supposed to protect her, and in the end, she was the one that saved me." Her hands move to her side, pressing against the edge of her wound, I saw her grimacing in pain, I knew it was more psychological than physical. "When the blade pierced my armor, she opened a portal and threw me into it. I would have stayed and fought till my last breath, but…"

"Couldn't she have escaped through the portal as well?" I asked, being all Mr. Logical and shit.

She shook her head, "the downside of her powers, is that she couldn't go through her own created portals. She is needed to keep it open. It would close the second if even a tiniest part of her got through."

"What scares me the most," she continued, "is that I can no longer hear them, I can no longer feel them. Silence… darkness. It's like nothing remains beyond the portal."

"I have to get back," her eyes fell upon mine, I can see the undying persistent within hers, "I have to go back to my world… but I don't know how."

I wasn't given a chance to speak, because in the next second, the door to my house was blown wide fucking open. I squealed, embarrassingly loud and attempted to dive underneath the dining table for cover. My newfound companion, on the other hand, she reacted almost immediately. Shooting up from her seat, she planted her soles onto the table and shoved, sending the entire thing flying across the room, exposing my crouching form.

Holy fuck, that woman is strong.

It crashed near the entrance, blocking the path for a split second, enough for her to retrieve her weapon, drawn blade at the ready. I heard the muttering of a spell, seconds before the table was blown apart, showering the two of us with wooden splinters.

The first of them entered the room, followed by another, then another. Three Aurors, their wands glowing at the ready.

"Harry Potterson," the first one spoke, "you're wanted in for immediate questioning, failure to comply shall result in your-"

He was unable to finish his sentence before she leapt in his direction, her blade a spinning flurry of silvered metal. The first Auror barely managed to get his wand up before it got completely sliced into two separate pieces. His jaw dropped wide open, below a boot planted into his chest and sent him sprawling against the behind walls. The one behind him casted an immediate spell, and I shouted out a warning as a beam of red lanced in her direction. But instead of dodging the bolt of magic, she simply raised her blade up and swung it down, splitting the spell into useful halves. Without hesitation, her blade returned upwards, colliding against an invisible shield. A defensive charm, one that I recognized was immune to physical-

Fuck me, her blade shattered the charm almost effortlessly.

The auror stumbled backwards, his face filled with unexpected terror.

Before long, she herding the three into a corner, like a bunch of sheep, crouched before her blade.

"Beg," she snarled, "plead for the mercy of the one whose house you intrude."

I realized she was referring to me - who was still cowering behind a potted plant for the last five minutes or so. I cleared my throat and stepped out.

"Son of Pot," she asked, "shall I dispatch of them?"

She seemed to think of them as common intruders, but I knew better. It was because of last night, the trace charm, it detected my spell. That was why they were sent after me, undoubtedly afraid of what I was trying to do. They wanted to bring me in for questioning. While I appreciated what she was offering, I am pretty sure that the decision would not bode well in the long term.

"No," I said, "let them go."

She stared at me in confusion.

I looked at the first auror, he was glaring at me with anger, but beneath his hardened exterior, I recognized fear, I could sense his uneasiness, his distress. It was all too familiar. I grabbed his broken wand, returning it to him as he picked himself up. As much as I fucking detested it, I knew I had no other choice.

"Lead the way," I muttered, "the ministry awaits."

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/n:** A long awaited update. Nothing important of note really happens in this chapter, it's more of a setup as to what our characters are going to do next.

Also, there's something I kind of wanted to point out. I received a PM that went something along the lines of:

"It's lame how Harry is just moping around at his current job. Why couldn't he have found a better job in the Muggle world? It doesn't makes sense."

Like I've said before, this story is just something randomly thrown together for fun. It's not something to be taken seriously. I'm not going to try to explain and make sense of everything in this story, and you shouldn't either. But, for the sake of that question, it's quite easy to fill in the blanks.

Just because Harry left the wizarding world, it doesn't mean they no longer keep an eye on him. There's still the possibility of him becoming a scientist and engineering a deadly virus, or for him to gather the required skills, funding and followers to become a terrorist. So, in order to prevent those outcomes and more, they're still "cock-blocking" him.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **Chapter: 4**

It's been a long time since I've last set foot in the Ministry complex. More than a decade, I reckon; I would never forget the compulsory visits, the weekly check-ups on my well-being and daily-doings; like an overprotective father of sorts, and me, the compliant teenage daughter. It was a cycle I was too happy to break, and yet, here I am, back again.

How cruel of fate.

Stepping into the underground structure, we were greeted by the usual mad scurry of the faceless ministry crowd; the familiar jostling and perpetual rush of its occupants, the blind pushing and nudging of those completely oblivious to their surroundings, save only their destinations in mind.

There were little that paid heed to my arrival, and that lasted shortly until we marched deeper into the heart of the Ministry. The number of curious onlookers grew, as hushed whispers and dozens of pointed fingers were directed towards our strange group. Yet as attention drawing as I, and the five accompanying guards were, Sif was the most out of place – in her impressive piece of Asgardian armor, along with her gigantically held blade, she couldn't have been any more incongruous.

The Aurors might have confiscated my wand, but they seemed almost afraid to approach her for the same reasons. Instead, she marched silently beside us, a most peculiar sight to behold. I knew she had many questions of her own, but the situation was slowly unfolding, and we were not granted pause, so she remained quiet, her thoughts left only to herself.

We were escorted deeper into the Ministry complex, and as I found my eyes trailing towards my following companion, I couldn't help but to quickly become enthralled by her own; they were of hazel steel, features of hardened apprehension; a sort of wariness and equal preparedness. They darted restlessly across our surroundings, a rising uneasiness she couldn't suppress. It wasn't of fear, but we were all strung thin, I didn't blame her, I wasn't given a chance to explain our current predicament. I knew she was ready to fight her way out of the Ministry if needed be, I just hope it wouldn't come to that.

I wondered what went on currently inside her head. It must have been most bizarre, to be attacked by hooded figures with wands and managing to disarm them, only to surrender afterwards and following them into an unfamiliar world – one of sorcery and magic. She managed to keep her composure, but alongside the wariness, I also noticed the marvel and wonderment in her features.

I wondered too, if there is magic in her world. I know it is unlikely, but then again, they are the ones with Sa… Sav-… fucking Night Elves I mean.

We reached one of the lower levels before coming to an eventual stop. Dozens of empty courtrooms passed us by before we were led to an unused waiting room of sorts. We were told to wait inside while they gathered the required members for my hearing. The doors closed with a loud clang as they left, and we were suddenly alone once more.

"Son of Pot… I have many questions, and no idea where to start," she said after a long moment of silence, her voice echoing softly across the tiny room. "But what I have noticed, is the uneasiness, the fear they have for you."

It wasn't as much an accusation, as much an uncertain confirmation.

I nodded.

Her brows furrowed. "I have fought in many wars, and I have faced down giants twice my size. In my many years of combat, I've seen and experienced most forms of fear, but none quite the way their gaze fell upon yours." She paused, and I noticed the softening of her stare. "And that is which perplexes me the most, beyond your decision to spare those who attacked us, beyond where we are, and the reasons of which we're here."

"Above all, I do not understand," she said, "of the reasons behind their stares, of which as though you're the person responsible for all the misery in this world. Because they surely do not befit someone so willing in saving my life."

"I… well," I stuttered, I never once had the luxury of having such a conversation with someone outside the wizarding world who knew not of my identity. It was disconcerting, to say the least. "I'm… prophesied to become the Dark Lord. The eventual destroyer of my world and the next."

It sounded even stupider than it was.

I expected a multitude of different reactions, but I was not expecting her to laugh, but she did – exploding in a bout of hearty laughter. When she eventually regained her composure, she turned back towards me with a wide grin. "That might be the most preposterous tale I've heard in a long while. Even more so than Thor falling in love with a Midgardian woman!"

I sensed a little bit of shade being thrown, but I kept my thoughts to myself, not that she seemed particularly interested in sharing that story. I sighed, "I- is it really that funny?"

Her brows cocked in my direction, her entire posture as though waiting for the revelation of my joke, as though I wasn't being serious at all. Unfortunately, reality was a lot harsher in my case, if not, I wouldn't be stuck here in my current situation. I shook my head. "I wasn't joking, the prophecy, it-…"

"The prophecy?" she interrupted, "even if true, you would allow the words of another to dictate your life?" There was no mistaking the fires of remembrance behind her hardened glare. "We have our own prophecies too, Son of Pot. From the Ends of Asgard to the Falling of Yggdrasil. From the visions of coming darkness and the drowning of lives."

She chucked unexpectedly, but not out of amusement, instead of own experiences passed. "Each of those were prophesied to be our final ends. The end of our age, the twilight of gods, they say. Except we've faced each and every single one of those adversaries head on, and we never faltered in our determination."

She smiled, and it was genuine. "Because, Son of Pot, prophecies are nothing more than cautionary presages of events to come. They are nothing more than heeded warnings, and not promised assurances. I believe a person's destiny can only be dictated by oneself, and it lies upon whether you're simply going to lay down your arms and die, or to pick up what remains and fight till your very last breath."

"Prophecies are different in my world," I replied, "they are common occurrences, and those properly verified, have never been wrong. Not even once. Especially those of grave importance such as my own." She didn't look convinced, so I explained further. "You see, there were three other dark lords prophesied before me, and each were monsters of their own kind. There were non-believers of course, until all three waged their own wars, and countless lives were lost."

"But…" I sighed. "As devastating as they were, none were prophesied to… well, end the world. Except for me."

She was still unconvinced. "I do not believe in fate, Son of Pot. If we were acquiescent to our own foretold deaths, Asgard would have fallen over centuries ago."

"That may be so," I said, "but this is not Asgard."

"Then someday, Son of Pot." She gripped onto my shoulder reassuringly, "Not today, but someday, you'll understand."

She is like a goddamn beacon of optimism. However, before I could reply, the doors swung open and the Aurors returned. We were asked to follow, and were led down long corridors and past dozens of unmarked doors and hinged torches before coming to an eventual stop in front of a heavyset door.

The head Auror motioned towards the entrance, "Courtroom Seven."

I took a step forward, and as I did, the two Aurors behind raised their wands – and the darkened corridor was instantly engulfed by a reddened luminescence - as readied wands pointed in the direction of my female companion.

"Not her," they said. "Only you."

She did not even flinch in the face of their sudden hostility.

I however, was scared shitless.

I saw her fingers inching towards her sheathed blade, and I quickly stepped between her and the two Aurors. "Wait! Wait the fuck up," my voice was a little squeaky, but in my defence, it was fucking terrifying standing between the two parties.

I turned to her first, "It is okay. You can wait here."

"I do not like this."

"Don't worry, they just want to… talk to me," I said, "I just need to clear some things up and we can be on our way. It's something I have to do on my own."

"Still, I do not like this."

"I know," I sighed, "I do not like it either."

"If you are not out in ten minutes, I'm going in on my own." She said in a dead serious monotonous voice, "And I'll kill whichever spell caster that stands in my way."

I gulped nervously, I certainly hoped she was joking – though she probably was not. But still, she took a step back, and allowed me to return my attention towards the enclosed courtroom.

For a moment, I wondered if I was supposed to knock. So, I stood awkwardly outside until the iron locks started to shift on their own – the gears turned, and the entrance was revealed in a gust of heated air.

Like the gaping jaw of an untamed dragon. It was all-fucking-terrifying. I entered, and the jaw- I mean doors, were shut behind me.

My soft footsteps echoed loudly across the vast chamber, my only visible path a direct line towards a single erected chair by the center of the room. I headed in its direction, noticing the many chains and casted charms around the piece of seemingly innocuous furniture. It resembled a medieval torture device of some sort, or perhaps something from a set of a bondage flick.

Not that I was judging.

"Harry… Potterson."

I jumped at the creepy voice, and for the first time, noticed the shadowy figures that stood behind the opposite podium. There were at least a dozen of them, shrouded in darkened robes, like a satanic cult of some sort, and me their poor human sacrifice. The ambience was already spot on, they were only missing a few pentagrams and ominous music. At least I wasn't drenched naked in chicken blood, so I had that going for me… at least.

I wasn't able to make out any of their faces, until one of them stepped forward to the podium. The man pulled his cloak backwards, and I recognized the portly features of Cornelius Fudge. I knew him from the many times I've visited the Ministry during my younger days, but he was older now, and a lot more wrinkled than before.

For the Minister of Magic himself to attend my hearing, the situation felt almost dire. Yet, I do not blame them. I understood their consternation. The trace charm left on me had not detected a single casted spell for almost an entire decade – until late last night.

They must all be apprehensive of my reasons and motives. I had to tread lightly, so as much as I wanted to, I wasn't about to call them a bunch of creepy looking Satanists.

I knew the Ministry had records of all my casted spells, and it was apparent Lumos was all I've casted – a mere lightning charm, as harmless as can be. I needed to convince them my intentions were nothing more than a necessity for light. But the whole situation with Sif and the three Aurors she overpowered, well, that was a completely different and more so complicated situation.

"Investigative hearing on the twenty sixth of December," the Minister started to say in a pitchy voice, as the figure beside him started to take notes. "Interrogator: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic. The offense committed by the defendant is – illegal usage of magical abilities, on the morning of December twenty six – refer to defendant's trace charm for detection of casted charm."

"Harry Potterson," Fudge looked up from his notes, "do you understand your charges?"

"Yes," I nodded, "but there is-"

"Make note that the accused understands his own wrongdoings."

"Wait, what?"

He raised an eyebrow in slight disdain. "Are you denying that you, knowingly and deliberately, in full awareness of the severity of your actions, produced a lighting charm in a Muggle inhabited apartment complex, in view of another-…"

He paused, before leaning forward to take a closer look at the parchment. "Asg-… Asgardian?"

He turned to the aide by his side and harshly whispered, "What in Merlin's hat is an Asgardian?"

The younger wizard shook his head furiously, seeming equally confused.

Trace charms are able to detect those in vicinity of a casted spell, which in turn, dictates the level of severity between a spell casted in front of Wizards, and those in view of Muggles. The trace charm it seemed, also had the ability to detect, and differentiate between us and Asgardians. I guess that reaffirms what she was saying; she wasn't a crazy person lying about a portal from another world.

I wasn't too sure whether to be relieved or astounded.

"Never mind that," Fudge said suddenly, before turning his attention back towards me. "You have received stern instructions from the Ministry that you are not allowed to learn nor cast magic, am I right?"

"Yes, but-"

"And you have agreed to those terms, in exchange for being released into society and not kept under Ministry watch, am I right?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then why did you-"

"Without it, a person would have died. I did it to save her life."

This time, I was the one who interrupted him, and the whole room exploded in a flurry of tensed discussion. When the commotion eventually died down, I could sense the disbelief and doubtfulness of all those in attendance. Me, the prophesied Dark lord of all people, trying to save a life. It was laughable.

"Explain yourself," Fudge commanded.

"A person was bleeding out, and as you may see from my educational background and records, I had the knowledge and ability to save the person's life. But there was a blackout in my building, and I couldn't see the wound. The person was losing a lot of blood, and the situation was too dire to find another source of light, so I casted the spell, and that was it."

The room erupted once again in a flurry of activity, until Fudge screamed at the crowd to quieten themselves. I was told to wait while they engaged in private conversation.

A long ten minutes passed before Fudge returned to the podium.

"Mr. Potterson," he said to me with a smile, as though we were friends and there was nothing wrong in this world. "We will not be charging you."

That was too fucking easy. I knew he had something else in mind.

"We believe you meant no harm, but of course, we need to set an example of sorts. We can't have the rest of the underage society following in your footsteps now, can we?"

I knew it.

"So, what we propose…" he was trying to stifle his giggle. "Community service."

Fuck.

"In the Wild Lands. There is an infestation of sorts."

Fuck fuckity fuck.

Community service meant a lot differently than they did in the Muggle society. For them, it is an actual public service of sorts, either mandatory or voluntary. For us however, public service is something else entirely, a conscription of sorts, where willing (or unwilling) wizards are sent to rid the uninhabited Wild Lands of unchecked magic. It might sound simple, yet it is anything but; there is nowhere in this world more dangerous than the Wild Lands; it is where dark magic and creatures corrupted by those, roamed free.

It is all becoming clear now.

Fudge's plan is to send me on a suicide mission. Even the most experienced of Aurors are afraid of venturing into the Wild Lands, much more so than a wizard barred from learning and casting magic.

And from the look on Fudge's cake-like face, it is not just a matter of simple insect infestation, it's most likely dragons.

Definitely dragons.

Fuck.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**


End file.
